I planned to stay awake until half past eleven, but I bought cola by mistake, and I drank it because I already opened it, so, hello, midnight, or close to it.

I'm writing for no particular reason.

I just had a thought, really.

In good days I believe that people will not always have time. Hell, I don't always have time.

In bad days I believe that people are deliberately not listening to me.

In good days I believe that people don't just want to dive in with their two cents, but rather, wait to see everything before pitching in. These times, after all, are not good for first thoughts. People will always scream "context!"

In bad days I believe that people just do not care.

In bad days I believe that people want me to suffer.

I told Shalla a few days ago that, in recent months, I would have at least one outburst a week. A big one, the sort of thing I should have been weaned out of when I was a boy. I scream at the top of my lungs, gutteral and just not nice. I lost my voice this week because of a really bad day. Got into fights. Was this close to killing myself.

The bad days are happening more frequently than ever.

These are things I'm not supposed to write about, because nobody cares. Nobody wants their bubbles burst. Not even I do - and my bubbles are often filled with thoughts of being alone even if, on a good day, there's abundant proof that I am not.

But most of the time, these days, I do. Save for my girlfriend, who also goes through dark patches, ones we both try to navigate around and often fail to - her aside, I feel alone.

I feel alone because, every now and then, I am reminded that I am really not wanted for the most part.